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Ilet out a deflated sigh. “Yes, Dad, I know. I’ve been working on my conditioning.”
I’m on the phone with my dad. Last weekend, we played an away game against Michigan. As always, my dad was watching closely; not just while it was live, but post-game highlight footage of me on every major play. As usual, he called me to read the laundry list of faults he found in my game.
The number one problem, in his diagnosis, being my stamina.
“You were too slow on those late third period plays, son,” he says, his voice stern. “Maybe it didn’t matter against Michigan because you had the game won thanks to that great score from Tristan River, but in a tighter game the third period is everything. You could’ve let your team down.”
Of course, he doesn’t give me any kudos for the fact that I assisted Tristan’s goal that he’s so impressed with, instead he’s basically blaming me for a hypothetical he came up with that didn’t even happen.
“I know.” I answer, the words coming through grit teeth, to keep me from saying too much. “I’ve been spending more time in the weight room than ever.”
“Good,” my father clips. “We’ll see if it pays off against Boston in a couple days.”
Something tells me that, in my father’s judgment at least, it won’t.
We end the call and I slide the phone back in my pocket. A call from my dad is the last thing I need while I’m heading towards a class. Especially Psychology, since the professor just dumps a totally unmanageable volume of material on us every single lecture.
At least I have something to look forward to after today’s class. Zoey and I are supposed to link up again to finish whatever she needs for the social media project I’m the subject of. I’ve been excited for it since we agreed last Friday.
Really, I should be more nervous than excited. Being around Zoey is like standing next to a livewire. She’s dangerous. Totally off-limits for two major reasons: working with the team’s social media department, and being Coach’s daughter.
But the magnetic allure I feel every time I’m in her presence hasn’t decreased an iota since I first saw her Halloween night.
It’s even harder than usual concentrating on the lecture today, knowing that she’s on the other end of the room, in a position that’s impossible for me to even glance at without twisting my whole body to the side. She got to class after me, and promptly found a seat as distant from me, and as far behind me, as possible.
After class, when I meet her in the hallway, it looks like she’s doing her best to act like a robot. Posture strait as a board, lips pressed tight and straight together, expression like an ice sculpture.
“Ready to go to the library?” she asks in a business-like clip.
I nod. “Yep. Good thing you don’t have to sprint to your next class anymore, huh?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood at least a little. Even though thingshaveto stay business-like between us, since she’s now strictly off-limits, it would be nice to ease some of the tension in the air.
“Right,” she clips back. “Something tells me trying to coordinate a meeting over text messaging might not work out. I’ll lead the way to the library.”
I cringe at what was clearly a jab at me not texting her back for three months after I said I would.
While she turns away and sets off towards the exit, I open my mouth to call out to her. To tell her about how my phone broke right after I got her number, how I spent weeks afterwards trying to remember her number from the quick glimpse I got of it on my phone that night, even going as far as to text random numbers that I thought might have been it in the off-chance I got lucky.
To tell her that not being able to follow up on the connection we made that night has been eating me up with regret ever since. To tell her that all winter break I was looking forward to this new semester just for the chance of seeing her again.
But the words don’t come.
Maybe I should keep all of that unsaid. What would any of those admissions really do? Nothing can happen between us, not now that we both know who we really are.
In that case, maybe it’s a good thing that she’s angry at me. Even though I fucking hate the fact that I hurt her, if that bitterness helps build a wall between us, maybe it’s for the greater good. For both of us.
As we walk across campus to the library, her a couple strides ahead of me, I can’t keep my eyes from stealing a glimpse at her ass. It’s downright mouthwatering, the perfect heart-shape in her tight blue jeans. My abs clench as I remember how good it felt when my hips slammed against those soft, round cheeks.
The thought of grabbing a perfect handful of her, just like I did when we slipped into the closet Halloween night and our lips crushed together, invades my thoughts. I shove my hands into my pockets.
Yeah, maybe it’s really a good thing that she’s mad at me. Because I’m not sure I can trust myself to keep my hands off her, no matter how forbidden she is. As long as she wants nothing to do with these hands, or any other part of me, we’re safe.
At the library, we find a mostly empty floor and a desk in a corner away from anyone else. This way, we can talk without getting any evil eyes from studying students or harshShhh’s from vigilant librarians.
“How about you put some of your books and a notebook on the desk and I can take some pictures that look like you studying?” she proposes.
“Books?” I ask, my expression blank.
“Uh, yeah. From your bag?”
